


Yes, Prime Minister!

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Office Sex, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The P.M’s a Nutter. Remtard’s in Cabinet.  DoSAC’s in the hands of an imbecile.  No wonder Malcolm’s feeling the strain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes, Prime Minister!

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to be developing a bit of a theme here. That doesn't mean there's necessarily a plot attached, though!

“The guy is a fucking liability! Jesus _Christ_ , he didn’t get his nickname for being top of the class and handin’ out the fucking pens, you know? Even the civil service calls him Remtard, for God’s sake! Yeah, yeah, I know, bye.”

That Blackberry holder made of reinforced steel had been the best Christmas present she had ever bought, Sam congratulated herself as she dodged the device’s elegantly arced flight across his office. “You’ve heard about the Remington interview, then,” she discerned.

“Is there anyone this side of fucking Siberia – which is where the twat belongs, preferably down one of Uncle Joe’s old fuckin’ mineshafts – who hasn’t?” He accepted the damned phone from her hand and immediately hurled it again, landing it with the precision of far too much practise on the stack of newspapers lying abandoned on a spare chair. “He’s supposed to be _preventing_ climate change, for fuck’s sake, not speeding it up by spoutin’ off hot air from both ends at once! Jesus Christ! As if I didn’t have enough to deal with, what with the DoSAC dipshits leaving Nic’la Murray on her own in the ladies fuckin’ toilet for five minutes with some high-heeled twatbubble from _Grazia_. You seen that yet?”

“It’s not really my kind of thing, Malc.” When the nickname passed unnoticed she knew he really was at the end of his not inconsiderable tether. Forcing his chair back away from his overloaded desk Malcolm drew a thin hand across his face, pausing to rub the temples behind which a fearsome headache was building. “What did they ask her? Something about her husband’s favourite brand of sexy underwear? How her nasty little bully of a daughter’s getting on at her posh private school?”

“How the women in Cabinet get on with the P.M’s wife.”

Puzzled, she cocked her head and stared at him. “They hardly ever see her!”

“Exactly! But oh, no, old Mother fucking Hubbard had to burble away for five fucking minutes about how _well_ they all get on, swapping fuckin’ cake recipes like the bloody Mother’s Union. Now the P.M’s whining ‘cause his missus looks like she’s muscling in on Cabinet and Mary’s kickin’ off at Justice because Mrs P.M’s never given her tips for the perfect chocolate fucking brownie to her. Jesus, this isn’t a fuckin’ government, it’s a fucking nursery class!”

“And they all come running to you when they’ve grazed their knees, eh?” The world’s scariest classroom assistant grunted, letting his tired eyes close for a moment. Before the plan was fully formed in her mind, Sam was halfway through implementing it

She dropped the document she’d brought for a signature onto the chair facing his. Swayed around the width of his desk. Dropped noiselessly onto her knees, her chin jutted forward to rest lightly on his lax genitals.

“What the fuck—“

“Shush, Malc.” Too stunned to object he gawked down at her as she shuffled to position herself between his feet, huffing long, hot breaths against his fly. “Forget them, OK? Just _relax_ for a minute.”

His protest she stymied with a firm squeeze of one bollock, dropping her head to nestle in between his thighs. While her right hand dealt with the inconvenience of his clothing her left rubbed soothingly over his leg, the tips of her fingers just curling around to hit the susceptible spot behind his kneecap. “Tell me you’ve never imagined me doing this,” she challenged, getting her answer from the lift of his hips, the eager way he moved to her guiding touch. Already half hard, his penis bobbed appreciatively across her eye line, swelling further under the cascade of warm air she blew down its velvety length.

“That’s my boy,” she murmured, swiping her tongue across the sensitive head. The faintest growling sound emerged from her lover’s throat.

Something pulsed hard between her thighs. Sam clamped them together, exhaling a hiss at the sensation evoked. Slowly, keeping her gaze locked on his intent face, she leaned in, mouth wide open to engulf him.

“Jesus!”

All the strength he possessed, Malcolm was sure, was draining out of him, through his cock and down her wicked, swirling tongue. The minimal padding beneath his bony buttocks suddenly seemed to be made of quicksand. He was sinking, deeper and deeper with every lick and flick, eyelids heavy, head going light. Her teeth scraped lightly and he jerked up hard, her name an elongated hiss between puckered lips.

Then the desk phone rang.

“Bollocks!”

Keeping her movements slow and lazy Sam drew back, letting him fall from her glistening lips with a faint popping sound while he snatched the hateful device, his greeting more curt than usual as cool air tantalised his tender balls. “Prime Minister, what can I do for ye?”

She rocked back onto her heels, watching intently as the tension seeped back to tighten his lean features, frown lines settling at the corners of his mouth and pulling the pale skin taut across the high bridge of his nose. He had himself under control again now; from his office on the other side of the hall Tom Davis would never know his communications chief was hunkered down in his chair with his dick hanging out, stubbornly refusing to subside from at least partial arousal. If he sounded a touch more gravelled than usual, well, he’d had a lot of shouting to do in the last half hour. Not even Malcolm Tucker could come off that unscathed.

Still, it broke her heart to see the anxiety creasing around his narrowed eyes; to feel the tension rippling back through limbs that had been limp with delight beneath her touch. “I know, Boss, they shouldn’t be allowed to fuckin’ reproduce; they’re one step away from the fucking asylum, both of them, but they _are_ Cabinet Ministers, and…”

The words faded, leaving just the melody of his accent, always more pronounced when passion – sexual or political, it didn’t matter which - was stirred. Half the women in Westminster, and Sam suspected quite a few of the men as well, would gladly occupy her current position if only to hear that glorious voice reading from the Home Office’s internal bloody phone directory.

He’d forgotten her existence. Sam wasn’t taking that, not even from him.

She stuck out her chin. Fluttered her tongue against the head of his cock.

Malcolm’s voice went up an octave, the twitch of his dick ripping right through his thin frame. She did it again.

“Malcolm? You’re going to speak to Paul when he gets back, aren’t you?”

“Er, yes, of course.” Fizzing pleasure shot the length of his rearing penis. Malcolm’s throat was drying dangerously, but somehow he made the correct response. His hips shifted, sliding him between her parted lips, and he couldn’t quite repress a small, satisfied sigh. The relieved groan of the Prime Minister into his ear seemed to come from halfway across the planet.

By dint of raising his shoulder he could jam the handset against his ear, freeing up both hands for more important business, like gripping the arms of his chair while she took him deeper, the filthy, gorgeous bitch, winding her tongue around him like a fucking cobra. Malcolm screwed his eyes shut, biting down hard on his bottom lip while the aimless drone of his caller’s voice faded under the sound of his own laboured breathing. 

Hot. Liquid. That was how he felt, squirming into his evil lover’s sinful mouth, feeling himself being pulled deeper, her throat relaxing, every ripple of its muscles around him shooting spikes of bliss all the way to his brain. “Mmm,” he managed into the sudden silence left by Tom’s unexpected pause. “Yeah.”

“I’m so glad you agree, Malcolm.” He made out the words but their context escaped him, swamped by the glorious pain twisting his balls and turning his formidable brain to boiling lava. “Paul just has to learn to _think_ before opening him mouth, eh?”

“Yes!” He couldn’t hold back, not even with her fingers burning into his hips. Releasing his grip on the chair arms Malcolm groped for her bobbing head, powerless to stop himself thrusting, fucking her luscious mouth while the world caved in and the climax roared through him, wave upon wave of ecstasy pouring through his shuddering body. He dimly heard Tom’s cheery goodbye coming from a distant galaxy, all but drowned under the slurp of Sam’s gorgeous, glorious mouth sucking him dry. Somehow, he even managed a grunt in response.

The phone plummeted off his shoulder, clonking noisily into the front of his desk as it fell. Sam sat back on her heels, letting his flaccid penis slide from her lips with a succulent smack and grinned up at him, taking in the flushed cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of his chest with the smug satisfaction of an artist admiring her own masterpiece. “Did I really just do that?” she asked rhetorically.

One hazy grey eye popped open. “Looks like you,” Malcolm observed, the unusually mild sarcasm further softened by the heavy, husky note that lingered in his voice. “And I’d be fuckin’ annoyed if anybody else…”

“I just gave you a blow job while you talked to the Prime Minister.”

“Yes.”

“Never thought I’d be doing that when I applied for this bloody job.”

“Daft girl.” The pleasantly languid feeling refused to subside and Malcolm couldn’t summon the energy to fight it, preferring to lounge there with his pants undone and his lover on her knees, smirking up at him as if she’d just won the fucking lottery. “It’s just as well Tom’s too fucking dense to have guessed what was goin' on, because I haven’t got a fuckin' clue what he was wittering on about!”

“He’ll have forgotten whatever it was himself by now.” Sam planted her hands on his knees and levered herself carefully upright, tucking him back into his clothes with, he gathered, the categorical intention of feeling him up a bit more. 

Under the circumstances objecting to such unprofessional conduct seemed churlish in the extreme. Malcolm closed his eyes and allowed himself to savour the small residual sizzles of pleasure through his balls. “Something to do with Remtard,” he sighed, pulling himself upright long enough for her to buckle up his belt. “You’d better get his people on the phone, make them an appointment to come over. Oh, and the DoSAC mob as well.”

“As soon as?” Duty was calling and, ever the good soldier, Malcolm felt himself respond to the bugle’s call. Sam smoothed down her skirt and ran a hand over her hair before rubbing her glistening lips to remove any incriminating evidence. He flashed her a glittering, dangerous smile.

“Please. Oh, and Sam?”

One hand on the doorknob she stopped, craning to look back over her shoulder. “Clear your diary for tonight, lass. I owe you, right?”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. If his misplaced sense of obligation meant a long, languid climax with his head between her thighs before midnight, Sam decided, she’d have to interrupt his telephone calls more often in the future!


End file.
